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At a good friend's suggestion, I went to a doctor who specialized in finding cures
through pain reduction. I had suffered an injury to my shoulder that didn't show
up in the x-ray taken at the ER. I suspected a torn rotator cuff as I couldn't raise
my arm beyond my bellybutton. My arm was in pain and is as useless as
Barack Obama without a Teleprompter.

So I packed up my youngest daughter (designated driver) and granddaughter
(designated delight) and traveled four hours from home. My first day was spent
on a sonogram machine where a fast-talking doctor showed me pics inside my
shoulder that he seemed to expect me to understand. I didn't know what Feelgood
was talking about. The only other things I've seen on a sonogram were conceived
grandchildren in their mother's uterus. Thank goodness there was no such sighting
in or around my rotator cuff. Doc proceeded to dotting up my shoulder for next
day's assault.

Golf: It's the hole thing

It's been said that golf is the last vestige of the senior competitor. That's my story,
anyway. Mediocre golf has been my passion for a lot of years. One of the more
important aspects of a golf swing is two working rotator cuffsthus the urgency
in my cure quest.

The next day was upon us. As we settled into the stabbing room, nurse and doctor
asked me my religion. A little confused, I said, "Jewish." Doc asked if I would like
to pray with them. Declining, I said I wouldn't mind if they wished to, but inside
I felt some discomfort at a public display of prayer. Each gave a 30 second plea
and ended with, "…in the name of our savior, Jesus Christ."

Immediately, Feelgood started jamming little needles full of sugar water into my
shoulder. Then he pushed his finger to see if the little pricks assuaged the pain.
They did! When he asked me to raise my arm, the miracle that was supposed to
take place fell flat. Improvement, yes, but cure? NO CIGAR. It still hurt like hell
and I couldn't raise it much.
Then, a second and more frenzied shooting up began. As he pressed and shot, the
doc seemed to grow agitated and worn a tad thin. I think he nailed me with about
120 injections, my upper arm swelling with the sugar water as I was sure I was
going into a diabetic coma.

Finally, after still feeling major pain at his touch, Feelgood announced, "I'm going
deep into your shoulderright to the rotator cuff itself." I asked if it was going to
hurt and he responded, "Maybe a little more than the little shots, but not much."
"Okay," I said bravely, "have at it!"

Wasting no time, he came at me with the long needle, jabbing my shoulder as I
lay on my stomach, pushing it deeper and deeper. The more he sank the needle,
the more profound the pain. Then he started moving the needle side to side.
Protesting in pain, I asked what he was doing. Feelgood said he was maneuvering
between bones to get to my rotator cuff. I didn't get the feeling that he ever actually
located my torn tendons when he unleashed the Hounds of Hell inside my shoulder.

Uncontrollably, I shouted out a blasphemy heard by anyone within three blocks
of the doc's office, ironic for a man who was known for easing pain for 30 years.

Undaunted, Feelgood kept going in, unloading his dancing needle, peaking my
pain in such brutality that I screamed in agony, tears coming down my cheeks as
I tore away at the pillow beneath. Then, I did something that the toughest amongst
us wouldn't do. I confessed to:

1) My presence on the grassy knoll during the Kennedy assassination.

2) Knowing the details of the next terrorist attack on NYC.

3) Worst of allvoting for Jimmy Carter when he ran against Gerald Ford.

Clearly shaken, both Doctor and Nurse withdrew my torture.

Since water boarding has become illegal in the Obama administration, I can, in
good faith, recommend the above method.

As I was leaving the shaken ones, my parting question was, "If I come back,
would you do me one favor?" Eagar for any scrap of positive, Doc said,
"Anything!" I asked, "When you pray next time, would you mind giving a shout-out
to Moses?" Falling right in, Feelgood exclaimed, "Of course! And I could talk
about Abraham, too!" I said, "Yeah, all the old Jews, if you don't mind."

You can't be a brain surgeon without an open mind

This week I went to an orthopedic surgeon's office and convinced his staff that I
had an emergency. They gave me an appointment, squeezing me in a few days
from now. At least with him, I'll be expecting the pain!
Oh and the emergency? I have to be cured by golf season!

I know my priorities.

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JWR contributor Dave Weinbaum hosts DaveWeinbaum.com. He is a businessman, writer and part-time stand-up comic and resides in a Midwest red state. Comment by clicking here.